The Only One He Ever Loved
by Blinded Moon
Summary: We zoom in on Voldemort, the summer after the death of Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort is secretly wracked with emotion and loneliness. The only people who know why are Voldemort himself and the conniving Bellatrix Lestrange, who explore the dark lord's past.
1. Decay

**The Only One He Ever Loved**

**Chapter One -- Decay**

Green moss grew endlessly on the oil canvas. The dank atmosphere provided a perfect residence for the decay. But if you stare closely at the canvas with a lit wand, you can almost see the figure inside. It's a wonder what muggles can do with just a bristled piece of wood and colored chemicals, not to mention without the use of magic. The portrait of Tom Riddle was perfect; every spot of paint made the man look almost real, as if in a wizard painting. And though the moss covered his face, you could tell that he was still somewhere inside the canvas.

Yet the moss had lived there for years, ever since the family's mysterious deaths. Nobody had bothered to enter the house, not even looters. The house was still covered in muggle furniture, though most of it was broken and rotted, much like the painting. Lord Voldemort hadn't done much to clean things up nor get rid of them. He preferred the darkness to the light, the broken to the fixed. Yet he himself didn't know why he hadn't replaced the muggle items with ones of magic. Most of his magical objects just crammed against the muggle things, making the house almost a connection between the muggle and the wizard.

_Sort of like myself_, thought Voldemort, cursing his half-blooded nature. Ignorant muggle father, weak witch mother, was it his childhood that had made him this wretched? Albino white skin, blood red eyes, a nose like a snake, all of which that weren't even his to begin with, all just fake from when he rose again from his caldron womb. Who was to blame? Was it he or his parents? He wondered if something outside his control was the source for his power hungry state. Was it the indelible mark of Parseltongue that ran through Salazar Slytherin's veins that created his wish for power, therefore bringing him this horrid state? Or did he bring all of this upon himself? He dismissed the thought from his mind; it's not as if he was some kind of psychologist.

The marked man walked over to his father's desk. The wood was pale and dark, yet it wasn't went and covered with the mold like other objects around. This desk was still in use. The bark making it wasn't just ordinary muggle wood anymore either; a spell had been cast upon it to keep it fresh. A desk wretched as Voldemort himself wouldn't be good to preserve what lay inside one of the cabinets, locked by magic. It wasn't something that belonged to Voldemort anyway, and even in the restored desk, the object deserved more than it had. The dark lord sighed painfully, as he knew he had little better to offer the object thrown carelessly by a fallen angel.

A harsh wind blew through the fragile house. Voldemort shivered, his cloak was far too thin for the winter weather. He wondered why he hadn't worn something heavier. Did he expect some warmth? Was there ever warmth in the Riddle House? No, just cold chairs, cold tables, cold paintings, and a cold hearted being were inside. He considered a warming charm, yet he hadn't even reached for his wand when he realized he didn't deserve the heat. His heart was cold, and his body deserved the same fate.

_My heart_, he thought sadly. Did his relatively new form have a heart? Or was there just some dark magical force pumping the blood? He then realized that there had to be something causing his emotion and regret at the moment. It was odd to finally have such a humanlike feeling in a body that wasn't even that of a human. It was a new thing, as the heart and feeling of his old body had been shut out when he lost his only spark of possible love. Yet the new form contained promise for more emotions. The dark lord considered studying magic more to find a way to banish these emotions, as he had never needed to learn a charm to protect himself from this sudden weakness. It was a weakness that had destroyed so many; he wondered why a curse to destroy them hadn't been common knowledge. Perhaps nobody had desired it.

_Maybe I'm the only one who has these wishes_.

Being alone in this house, just him and his dark desires, wasn't a new feeling for Voldemort. Hell, he had been alone nearly all of his life. Friends were fleeting, family members never around, being alone was what he was used to. Yet he had never actually felt the pang in his heart that others feel when they are lonely. This pain was new. Yet it wasn't something that was created by another. It was all him this time. He was the only one to blame.

_It wasn't at my hands, it wasn't at my hands!_ Voldemort put his hands to his ears, trying only to hear his own excuses, trying to put the shame somewhere else. But it wouldn't move. The depression, the loneliness, and the dank mold on his heart were there to stay.

Voldemort was used to physical pain. His scarred body, those painful battles with those whose strength nearly matched his; every mark was created with physical pain. Yet he had never known such a pain as the one which gripped his mind and heart. They were opposite worlds, physical pain and emotional pain. His state of vulnerability was entirely new, and he stayed in his rather fetal position for a time that felt like an infinity.

Voldemort removed his hands from his ears, cursing himself for allowing his heart to gain control of his body, putting him into a weak position. _Weakness is the enemy_, he thought to himself, as he does every day. It was his creed, his motto. _Had an auror walk in, you'd have been dead_, he thought to himself, practically hearing his high maniacal voice spitting out the words. _The past is the past, and there isn't a thing I can do now to change it. I just need to either accept it or forget it. And acceptance sure as hell ain't coming any time soon._

The moment after he thought that, he immediately felt something that didn't belong. A magical presence nearby. He knew that nobody could come to the house, and no magical item in the room could give off such sparks. Unless…

Could it be? Is there really a soul still alive in the old thing? Voldemort rushed to the wooden desk, but before he could begin the sequence of spells to unlock the sealed drawer, he heard a shrill yet soft voice behind him.

"Lonely, my lord?"


	2. Cure

**Chapter Two -- Cure**

"Excuse me, Bellatrix?" growled Voldemort in his high-pitched voice.

"Just wondering whether you're lonely," replied Bellatrix innocently, "You may barely be human, but don't think you could ditch emotion all together."

"Silence, Bella!" Voldemort whirred around and pointed his wand at the witch. Bellatrix flinched and reached for her wand, yet knew there was no need. She had what her lord needed, and killing her might just break it.

"Bit touchy, are we?" she replied defiantly. Voldemort raised his wand more. "You couldn't kill me, not without the bottles."

"You're pushing it!" the snake-man screamed

"Okay, okay, now just put the wand away," she said calmly. Voldemort lowered the rough wooden stick. "Just answer me one question, my lord. Why is it that you suddenly rushed over to that old muggle desk the moment you sensed my arrival."

"Keep your nose out of matters that aren't yours, Lestrange!"

"Black is the name now."

"Are you so soon to abandon your husband? Just like those who abandoned me? And take on the name of your cousin Sirius?"

"It's just a name, no need for a tantrum." Bellatrix smiled at the lord. She had always been rather naughty with him, like the way a young girl is with her father. Voldemort almost was her father, helping her out of a lot of dark situations before. She often wondered whether she owed him more than her slightly rude treatment, until she realized that Voldemort enjoyed her snide remarks. She then understood why he never scolded her harshly; it was that he needed someone to treat him as a human, rather than some god, some devil. Bellatrix wondered if she was the reason Voldemort never cracked under pressure, or if her giving of human emotions would lead him to a meltdown. Either way, the only answer to the question was to sit and watch. If her lord were to die, she would flee. If her lord survived, she would ascend the rankings; perhaps she would even become his queen, his Persephone. Bellatix was always his favorite. She laughed at the thought.

"So why suddenly so lonely?" Bellatrix poked again at her master. She knew the true reason; she could see the feeling of lost love in his eyes. What she didn't know was who could it might be. Could it be Bellatrix herself?

"Didn't we already go over this?" retorted Voldemort

"I never got my answer."

"You don't need one."

"So does that mean you're admitting loneliness?" Bellatrix raised an eyebrow mischievously and let out a small smile.

"Childish mind games," muttered the dark lord, "Bella, I will not answer your silly questions. Now give to me what you have fetched and leave."

"So soon to end the party?" the mischievous woman let out a small pouty face. "Come on, you can tell me! I've only been your loyal servant for, how many years is it now?"

"Too many."

"See, you have the ability to be charming and witty!" Bellatrix lightly pushed him on the arm. Voldemort twitched darkly, shuddering from the touch. Nobody had touched him for far too long, dozens of years. Bellatrix's kind expression changed to one of confusion at the white-faced man. He felt embarrassed, another odd emotion which he wasn't used to feeling. He turned his face away and walked across the room to where Bellatrix couldn't see his confusion. The memories of love past suddenly filled him, which he had suppressed for so long. He brought his hand to his forehead, steadying his shaking body, covering his eyes, tears trying to break free. But he couldn't! He wouldn't! _Stop,_ he commanded himself, _Stop!_

"What?" Bellatrix seemed concerned. Voldemort didn't notice that his last "Stop" had been uttered aloud. "Stop what?" asked the curious woman.

"Nothing, nothing." Voldemort muttered again.

"If you weren't the most wanted man in the wizarding world, I would suggest therapy." Bellatrix crossed her arms at the troubled man. "But, that's thoroughly impossible. I'm the next best thing. So just tell me, what is wrong?"

"Haven't I answered this question too many times?" Voldemort's temper was rising at the nosy minx, "The answer is nothing, and I don't think these questions are respectful at all. Give me the bottles and go, Bella! I have no more wish to see you!"

"I want to help you."

"I don't want your help. How many times must I command you to leave before I have to force you out?" He drew his wand, even though he had no intention to curse her. He hoped she didn't know and she would leave him and his forlorn memories in peace.

"I cannot do that." Bellatrix sighed, scared of her master's wrath. "I am the only person in this world who truly cares about you, and I want nothing more than to help you. I can see that you have been distant lately and I know that something is wrong. Tell me, my lord, and we can fix this!"

Voldemort turned away again. He had never heard such words in his ears. So many new thoughts had come tonight, his brain felt like an unstable cauldron, ready to explode with such inexperienced ingredients. He felt the exact spots on his back where Bellatrix's eyes were boring into. He knew she wouldn't look away or go away until he gave her some kind of closure or he simply killed her. The second was no option, he knew, she was too special to him. _Wait, special? Did I just think that?_ Voldemort couldn't believe the feelings that were entering his mind now.

Bellatrix, staring at him just as Voldemort thought, was equally confused about his emotions. _Surely he feels regret about the recent events, but I didn't know he was so sensitive about so much_, she thought to herself, perplexed with Voldemort's condition. She did know that he felt some kind of feeling now; there was no way to mask the heart. _Perhaps I'm just surprised_, thought the woman. Nobody had ever seen this side of Voldemort. Very few, perhaps even her among them, even believed this side existed. Voldemort was barely a human being, especially after his rather sick rebirth. But now she saw the emotions, which had been capped off since some faithful day when he broke the chain, emotions that nobody but she would ever see again.

"Is that your father?" Bellatrix approached the mossy painting at the wall, "He does seem to look a bit like you. Well, a bit like the old you, I guess."

"Yes, that's him," muttered the dark lord, not turning back to face her, "The filthy muggle who chucked me in an orphanage the moment he knew my squib of a mother wasn't like him."

"Well you've definitely defied the old saying 'Like father, like son!'" Bellatrix chuckled and stared as hard as she could at the man in the painting. It was a dark room, and you could barely see because of the moss, but it was a very well done painting, especially for a muggle painter. She stared and stared, knowing that Voldemort will have to say something. She was right.

"This emotion," he hissed softly, "Loneliness. If I were to admit that it plagues me, then could you just tell me how to banish it, give me the bottles, and go?"

"A tough price," Bellatrix turned to face him, yet he was still turned away, "But one I may comply to. So, are you going to admit it?"

Voldemort paused. Things like this weren't meant to be admitted, particularly by a man such as him. "Yes."

Bellatrix smiled. "The first step to solving your problem is admitting it. But there is but one way to cure loneliness. And I don't think it's something you fancy very much."

"And what would that be?"

"Love," she responded plainly.

Voldemort shivered. Love was the reason he was reduced to a hideous form, hovering between life and death for thirteen years. It was a false charm that had destroyed his heart when he was young, and destroyed his body that faithful day. Voldemort turned around and stared at the witch who had uttered that cursed word. "Love?" he spat.

"You heard me."

He was silent and turned back toward the wall. Bellatrix walked up behind him, her heart shaking with each pace. When she reached him, she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. He gasped again, yet Bellatrix held on. "You cannot push this away anymore. Your heart and soul are in pieces. And we cannot heal that. But we can mask the pain."

Voldemort turned around and looked at her. She was a very beautiful woman. His eyes looked at her caringly, a look he had only given to one other person, so long ago. They stared and didn't say a word. And not a word was needed as they slowly moved closer, and their lips came together for a kiss.

The fire awakened. The dark lord yelled in pain and grabbed the witch, throwing her against the wall. What is love? Love is pain! Nothing would ever change that in Lord Voldemort's mind. He again walked to the corner of the room, steaming at that conniving little witch who lit the fire.

Bellatrix sat in a heap on the floor, hurt in ways she didn't imagine. She brushed the dust off herself, slowly massaging a bruise on her leg. She walked over swiftly.

"Here is what you have been seeking. The castle was empty and easily to break into." She protruded five bottles from her shadowy robes; two of which seemed to have looser corks, three of them seemed to be closed tighter than Voldemort's heart.

"Thank you, Bella. You may go."

"Oh no, I intend to watch these with you. I've always wanted to know the secret thoughts Dumbledore cares to look back on in his pensive. Maybe they might even reveal your little secret." She winked cheerfully, a wink of forgiveness at her abuser.

Voldemort paused. There was no convincing her. "Very well, Bella."

"I sensed many of them concerning you. But like you asked, I only took the ones which were straight from Dumbledore's mind. Have you a pensive?"

Voldemort walked over to a bookshelf and pulled out the clear white bowl used to view memories past. He sighed and brought it to the desk.

"Let the fun begin!" Bellatrix uncorked the first bottle.


	3. Wardrobe

**Chapter Three -- Wardrobe**

The silver liquid swam effortlessly and carelessly through the shallow bowl of a pool. The shifting lights mesmerized Lord Voldemort, who, though he had, of course, seen a pensive, had never seen it in such a contrasting light. The bright light of it reflected onto the cracked high ceiling of the room; all else was engulfed in faded darkness. Light was losing the battle, but there was hope. There was hope

"After you, my lord." Bellatix pointed to the basin of light. Voldemort suddenly remembered the purpose, and almost reluctant to leave the flickering lights, he plunged into the pensive.

He landed roughly inside a plain room. A springy mattress sat shaking upon a cheap wooden bed frame. But it was on the mattress that made the dark lord nearly collapse in surprise. It was the young eleven year-old Tom Riddle.

Voldemort didn't even notice Bellatrix's entrance. He walked, shaking, toward the bed, approaching the old friend. He saw the figure engrossed in a short chapter book, the pages yellow and frayed, the cover completely torn off. He remembered the book well, and he remembered reading it over and over again, never bored at the tales which were held inside. He especially liked re-figuring the secret riddle at the very end of the tale. Young Tom had always loved the feeling of figuring something out, even if it was a silly riddle which had been figured out many times before. The ancient muggle book his most prized possession. The dark lord shook his head solemnly, mourning the death of his old self. How he hated that orphanage, yet how much he wished to return now. To return back to the times of simplicity, the muggle life. How much Voldemort would give to leave his sad existence and recombine with his childhood self; stay in the pensive forever. Sure, he caused occasional mischief around the orphanage. But it was all innocent. Voldemort reached out to stroke his old self's dark brown hair; nothing in the untouched mind knew of the terror to come, the terror that began when the dark door to magic was opened.

The door to the room opened just when Voldemort's hand was just inches away from his alter ego. Albus Dumbledore entered the room. Voldemort saw the shocked expression on young Tom Riddle's face. Of course, any muggle would exhibit shock if a curious man with a light brown and red beard and dark purple robes entered the scene. The younger Dumbledore looked kinder and calmer than Voldemort had ever seen him. The dark lord gave a light sigh and immediately turned away from the scene. He could not see that man again, even if he was many years younger. Bellatrix noticed this curious movement and turned her master back to watch as the events unfold one more time.

"How do you do, Tom?" said the light faced man. The pang in Voldemort's heart increased on hearing the man speak. He watched Dumbledore and his younger self's hands touch. The older Voldemort could swear he saw a spark when the hands touched.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor?" replied the young Riddle, "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" Bellatrix chuckled at the boy's rather questioning and powerful personality, but Voldemort found nothing funny about the situation. He continued to watch, secretly pained.

"No, no." said the young Dumbledore

"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she! Tell me the truth!" Bellatrix cackled loudly at this. Voldemort just shook his head.

And so the scene continued, more painful at every word Dumbledore said and every look the young Riddle gave. Voldemort watched as Dumbledore first introduced the ideas of magic to the chaste child.

"I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to." Voldemort was hurt as he heard his young self say this. The young child had always loved to see the bullies pained as he used his unknown abilities. Now, it seems Voldemort is the one who is in pain, even if it is the dark lord holding the wand, uttering the words. The dark lord shook his head.

Voldemort knew every line in the play before him. When it reached certain points, he just turned away and collected himself. But one point, he couldn't. He wanted to, but he had to see it again.

"I'm sorry sir. I meant – please, Professor, could you show me -?" Oh if only that question had been avoided! Voldemort attempted to turn away, but his feet and neck just couldn't budge, as if he had been petrified. Then, just as expected, Dumbledore raised his wand and pointed it directly at the dark lord. Voldemort thought, for a minute, Dumbledore could see him, as if he were there. The dark lord almost collapsed when seeing the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes once more, boring into Voldemort's crude red slits. Suddenly, the spell fired from the light lord's wand, blasting directly through the dark lord's heart. Voldemort did not feel the curse physically, but his heart had. He fell to his knees, weighed down by the heaviness of his heart. He was shot down; defeated.

The wardrobe burst into flames, along with every innocent and playful muggle item; along with every pure muggle belief in the young boy's heart.

Bellatrix went to the fallen angel, the teary-eyed devil. "Come, I think we've seen enough." She grasped her master's arm, and in a second, they had returned to the mossy mansion. The darkness of the room blinded Voldemort.

"The first wizard you met," inquired Bellatrix. She paused. "Albus Dumbledore. Who knew? Who knew?" Voldemort didn't respond. "Those robes of him, I've never seen such a clashing ensemble."

For the first time in awhile, Voldemort let out his high-pitched laugh, almost a scream. To think this first joyous moment would be brought on by the very man who caused all the depression. But the joy was soon gone; all joy tended to wander away soon after finding Lord Voldemort.

"Pass me the earplugs, please!" replied Bellatrix, immediately causing the dark lord to slip back into his mask. "But I must say, that was a very interesting little memory that Dumbledore kept. Why would he? Trying to find out where your evil started? Maybe he wants to prevent future cases."

"Perhaps," thought Voldemort, "Perhaps. I remember that day, though. The burning of the wardrobe…it was the burning of the past for me. It was a day where I left the safe muggle world and entered…this."

"Don't you just wish we could have it?" Bellatrix let out a sincere smile, "The simplicity and ease of a muggle life. Almost makes me want to snap my wand and buy a… fellytision is it?" Voldemort was silent again. "Tell me though, my lord, why do you want to see all these."

"Just to see exactly what Dumbledore thought." Voldemort half-lied.

"He was special to you?"

"Excuse me?" Voldemort felt a twinge of anger. What did she mean? What was she getting at? The truth? The truth was buried. The truth no longer existed.

"I mean, in the way that one looks up to someone." Bellatrix didn't want to bring it up too soon. She was after the truth and she would get it.

"Let's just move on to the next memory." Bellatrix sighed and replaced the first silvery liquid back into its glass home. She uncorked the next one. It was the last one before they moved onto the sealed ones. She poured it into the basin, where it flowed and swam. Voldemort did not look at the dancing lights this time, just entering the pensive before he was hypnotized by his bright enemy.


End file.
